


(You're the) Devil in Disguise

by isaac richard (isaacrichard)



Series: K-Billy's Love Song Selection [2]
Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Gunshot Wounds, Injury Recovery, M/M, Shower Sex, its not very graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacrichard/pseuds/isaac%20richard
Summary: Freddy, healing from a bullet to the gut, needs help to do just about anything in the shower.Larry is happy to provide.
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Series: K-Billy's Love Song Selection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765930
Comments: 1
Kudos: 46





	(You're the) Devil in Disguise

**Author's Note:**

> set somewhere after ch. 6 in "and the grass won't pay no mind". i got this image of freddy in the shower and... kind of got carried away.

“You think you’re up to try and shower today, Fred?” Larry asks, rolling off the bed to snap on his watch. He’s dressing casually these days, but there’s still an air of class to him. Freddy still hasn’t discovered the secret of how he does it.

Freddy yawns, stretches, and wraps his arms around Larry’s waist, pulling him back in bed fully clothed. Larry doesn’t protest. “Yeah. Guess I better, huh? Do I stink that bad?”

Larry frowns. The kid _was_ getting ripe, but that wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t walk on his own without pain, yet. Nobody was blaming him for being injured.

“Nah,” Larry amends easily. “Just – you wanna be clean, don’tcha? I would, after sitting in bed for this long. It’d give ‘Bama a chance to change the sheets, too. She’s been up my ass about it, actually.”

No, she hadn’t.

“I suppose,” Freddy says. He looks at Larry with glittering eyes, eyes big and shiny, that make him look like all of the eager 29-year-old he is. He sucks at his bottom lip, shy. “You gonna help me?”

Larry leans over to bite at Freddy’s ear, playful. He rolls out of bed completely, though, before Freddy can get any more ideas.

“’Course I am,” he says, addressing the question as innocently as he can. Freddy grins.

“Jesus, kid,” Larry groans, exasperated with Freddy’s ability to be horny. He scrubs a hand over his face. “You gotta get _clean,_ first!”

“Before what?” Freddy deliberately tosses the ball into his court, and Larry catches it with both hands.

He looks Freddy dead in the eye, and in a cool voice, says, “Before I make a mess out of you.”

Elvis is playing downstairs, as it almost always was. The King’s smooth voice floats up the stairs and into the little guest bathroom, as Freddy allows Larry to tape cling-wrap around his bandaged wound. It’s still too fresh to be exposed to water.

Freddy closes his eyes. He’s tired, a lot of the time, but not right now. Right now, most of his attention is on the swift, gentle feeling of Larry’s calloused fingers against the skin of his stomach. The callouses aren’t new, or hard. They’re just aged – the hands of someone who has worked hard, for a long time, for their living.

Freddy admires that. Always, he finds himself admiring this man who was supposed to be a menace to society. He finds himself thinking, _fuck that noise._

With Larry, he lets go. He doesn’t give a shit – he throws normalcy to the breeze. He’s about to be bathed by a man twice his age, and he’s going to fucking _enjoy_ it. He kisses Larry, maybe to prove this point to himself – but mostly just because he can.

“Shower first,” Larry says firmly, and Freddy rolls his eyes. Maybe he’s half-hard, maybe he’s not. That’s not what the kiss was about.

Mm, no, scratch that. He was hard in a greater fraction than half, because now that he’s securely bandaged up, Larry is removing his clothes.

Freddy had sort of… forgotten? - that showering involves nudity. Or, it hadn’t really occurred to him again, until right just now.

And maybe that sounds stupid, but for Freddy, bathing had never really been anything sexual. He didn’t do shower sex. He had never been to a bathhouse, or anything adjacent. When he showered, it was five minutes under the water and a dollop of shampoo in his hair, period, done, end-of-story.

But Larry had just rested his large, warm palm over Freddy's crotch, supporting him with his other arm. Freddy makes a low, contented noise. His eyes flicker to the doorknob.

“Locked it, baby,” Larry purrs. Freddy’s gone, then. The moment Larry calls him… that, he’s putty in Larry’s talented hands. “Just you and me.”

Freddy is dying for some friction, but Larry acts like he doesn’t notice. He strips him, and Freddy whimpers. He hasn’t been bathed by someone else in twenty years or more. It’s a vulnerable position for anybody.

But Larry hushes him. “Nothing I ain’t seen before,” he soothes, and even though it isn’t really about that, somehow, it makes Freddy feel better. At least he knows Larry doesn’t mind doing this.

And the wash itself is much how Freddy would wash himself – the way he imagines most men must wash themselves, when purely the washing is concerned. Straight, to the point, no funny business. Rinse, wash, repeat.

They might deviate a little and linger between Freddy’s legs a bit longer than is strictly necessary, but hey. They were having fun.

Mostly, the water stays in the tub, and Larry prides himself on that fact. The last thing he needs is to give Alabama more to do – she picked up after them all enough, in his opinion. She was just mother-henning, he realizes, but still. He was, at his core, a gentleman.

Elvis is singing about having a hunk of burning love, and Freddy could definitely relate.

“God – are you done?” he whines. The water’s still going, but he’s clean, and feeling better than he had in a good handful of days. He wants to get out and go be fucked properly.

“I’m sorry, did you need something?” Larry murmurs. His arm is still linked around Freddy’s waist, holding him steady. Freddy isn’t paying attention – he’s thinking of snagging the towel and hobbling off for himself, as he’s done with this shower business – when Larry slips a soapy hand between his thighs.

_Where the fuck did the soap come from?_ He had been rinsed clean not twenty seconds ago.

“Oh, fuck,” Freddy murmurs, his legs falling open for it. Larry’s hold on him is solid; and thank fuck it was – he might go right down the drain, otherwise.

Larry hums, biting a wet love mark into Freddy’s shoulder. He must be getting soaked himself, by now. Freddy doesn’t particularly notice, though. He was much more interested in Larry’s hands.

“Oh, my God, _Larry,”_ he breathes, bracing himself against the tile. Cocky as he was, he couldn’t just leave it at that. “You gotta fucking – fuck, dude. Oh my God.”

“Oh, I ‘gotta’, you little smartmouth?” Larry growls. It’s so far from dangerous, so honestly playful, that Freddy might laugh at it if he wasn’t in the middle of trying not to blow his load.

“I ain’t ‘gotta’ do _nothing,”_ Larry says earnestly, like someone had asked him what he ‘gotta’ do.

“Yeah, yeah,” Freddy murmurs. “I know it – ain’t do nothing. Make use of those fingers already, would you?”

“You little shit,” Larry is saying, but his tone is fond. He breaks the illusion a little, when he quietly tells Freddy to hold on, not to slip.

But that’s alright. Freddy holds on a little tighter, having found that quiet concern was part of who Larry was, how he showed he cared. He would have been a good father, in a different life.

They’ve got to be a little quieter than normal, being in someone else’s home, but the thrum of the shower does a good job over covering up the mewling Freddy’s making, pushing back against Larry’s fingers.

“Jesus,” he keeps saying. “Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus ain’t doing this to you, kid,” Larry says, and Freddy just nods stupidly, warm and wet and writhing backward onto Larry’s hand, onto his magic fingers, gasping.

And when Freddy comes apart, spilling all over the tile of the shower floor, Larry puts him back together again, bundling him into a towel and sweeping him back into the bedroom like a bride.

“Mm,” Freddy says, nosing at Larry’s chest. He had gotten all wet – he needs the towel as much as Freddy does. “Round two?”

Downstairs, another Elvis tune has started. Larry finds himself agreeing with the lyrics, as he looks down at Freddy’s pink, well-fucked face. His afterglow surrounds him like a halo.

_“You’re the Devil in disguise!”_


End file.
